


Hunting for Christmas

by catspride



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Demons, Family Drama, Gen, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-17
Updated: 2012-12-21
Packaged: 2017-11-21 09:34:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/596207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catspride/pseuds/catspride
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bobby plans for Christmas with John Winchester and his two boys, but John has more trouble than he planned just getting to Sioux Falls. Sam is sick and they have a demon on their tails.<br/>Sam is six; Dean is ten.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Who is This Child?

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Sam's Folly for the wonderful job beta'ing this story.

Hunting for Christmas  
Chapter One – Who is This Child?

 

December 1989

Bobby Singer hadn't been Christmas shopping in years. Not since he lost his wife Karen a dozen or so years ago. He never bothered to celebrate holidays much anymore—didn't seem to be much point. But maybe this year would be different, and maybe there was just a little spark of Christmas spirit in his heart. This year, he wasn't going to be alone on Christmas. This year, there would be children in the house, and if that couldn't make even a grumpy old coot like him get in the spirit, what in the hell could? 

The toy store proved to be quite the challenge for Bobby. He and Karen never had kids, Bobby didn't have brothers or sisters growing up, and his home life was hardly normal. He was lucky enough to have a bike, but only because his father said it was useful. When Bobby could make money doing odd jobs, he bought a few plastic army soldiers and comic books for himself that he mostly kept hidden from the old man. But that was then, during his own screwed up childhood, and he knew it wasn't normal. So, if he was going to have Christmas at his house with two young boys, there were going to be toys—good toys, damn it. 

Bobby asked for help, and he hauled a pimple-faced young store clerk down the aisle with him to be sure he got the right toys. Batman toys were the hot items this year. There was the Batman doll. Doll? Bobby eyed the thing staring at him from behind its plastic wrapping. At least it wasn't smiling.

“Action figure,” the store clerk corrected him.

“Okay.” Bobby tossed the thing in his cart.

Then there was a Batmobile—of course—and a Bat-Signal. Bobby turned the glorified flashlight over in his hand, then tossed it into the cart with a roll of his eyes.

“That's three toys for two boys.” He scanned the wall of Batman toys and gave the clerk a look.

“Oh,” the young man blushed. “How about a Joker action figure. That would even things out.” He gave Bobby a weak smile.

“Yeah, that'll do.” 

After adding the Joker to his stash, Bobby moved to the sports section of the store. All boys should have a baseball, a bat and a glove. This stuff Bobby knew, and he smiled to himself as he picked out a glove for each boy, guesstimating the sizes for a six- and a ten-year-old. He knew for a fact that John didn't have baseball equipment in the trunk of his Impala amongst the arsenal he'd amassed over the past couple years.

Next stop was the grocery store. Bobby didn't know how to make a Christmas dinner like Karen used to do, but he could bake a turkey with the best of them, and a frozen apple pie with some ice cream would be just fine. He didn't know anything about that green bean casserole stuff, but he reckoned he could heat up a pot of beans and throw some bacon in, and he knew how to bake sweet potatoes. What more could you ask for? Oh, yeah. He would stop by his favorite shop downtown and buy a bottle of High West Whiskey for him and John. Bobby was definitely getting into the spirit.

There was more to get at the grocery store. Bobby wanted a well-stocked kitchen for two growing boys—stuff he thought was good for them. It would be a few days before they got there, so fruit and vegetables would have to be the frozen kind. It was better than canned. He gazed in his cart and decided he needed to get some stuff he thought they'd like—that being different from the stuff that was good for them. He was thinking that some sugary stuff would be all right, but not too much. He didn't want the kids bouncing off the walls, but you couldn't have Christmas without peppermint candy canes at least. He chuckled to himself. Puttin' more thought into this than I do hunting.

The cookie aisle had been widened for the holiday and the volume of brightly packaged candies and cookies lining the aisle took Bobby by surprise, but what held his attention was the giant tree in the middle of everything. It was expertly decorated with bright, shiny balls and ribbons, glittery stars, ornaments of every kind, and tinsel—lots and lots of tinsel. Bobby stared at that perfect tree and remembered his own somewhat-less-than-perfect Christmases.

The holiday had always started out right. They had a tree—they always had a tree. Bobby and his mother put it up on Christmas Eve, late in the night after his dad was passed out in bed. He remembered the few bright red balls and thin strands of tinsel sparkling in the dim lamplight. He and his mother made garlands of popcorn and cranberries, and the smell of evergreen filled the room.

Christmas morning, the house was filled with the wonderful smells of cinnamon rolls and fresh oranges, and Bobby hurried to get up early to help his mother in the kitchen. She made the best cookies and apple pie. The smell would make his mouth water, and after that, she put the turkey in the oven. 

Christmases always started out wonderful, but as the day wore on and his dad drank more, the day turned out like most days. Bobby generally found a place to disappear. After his father died, his mother was never the same. His father had treated her like hell, but apparently she'd loved him. She could never work up the same enthusiasm for Christmas after his death.

It wasn't until Bobby married Karen that he learned to enjoy the holiday again: the food, the decorations, and especially the tree. Karen loved Christmas, and Bobby indulged her every whim. She gave the season a joy that Bobby had never known; but Karen was gone, and Bobby was like his mother. He stopped celebrating the season.

“Excuse me.” A woman's voice broke through Bobby's memories and brought him back to the present, to the huge, artificial, perfect Christmas tree that dominated the middle of the grocery store enticing people to the candy isle. Bobby moved his cart so the woman could pass. He gave her a nod and a quick little smile. Candy canes, he reminded himself. He needed candy canes.  
…....................................................................  
The music in Hill Street Tavern was loud—classic rock as usual. She scanned the patrons and, not for the first time, thought she was past due to make some changes. It was fun when she'd first started hanging out here, but the novelty was gone now. She was ready for something new—somewhere new. 

Winter had set in months ago, and the lake-effect snow was depressing. It was always gray and cold, and the snow was dirty and wet. It didn't take long to figure out why they called this place Dreary Erie. Honestly, she couldn't figure out why she was still here.

One more, she thought, if someone proved interesting. Her eyes fell on one at the bar, way down at the end, off to himself. He was dark, brooding and kind of sexy. That one was full of issues. She could tell by the slight slump of his shoulders—broad, strong shoulders that carried a heavy weight. His hands curled idly around his beer bottle, and he stared at it as if he could find answers there. He just might be worth the ride. She grabbed her beer from the bar and went to join him.

“Don't look so down.” She sidled up close, so close that her body grazed along the side of his arm. She liked her body. It was young and had a pretty face. Apparently it curved in all the right places and men liked it. Men called her things like pretty, sexy and hot in deep, husky voices. She liked the way her body felt when men touched her. She liked it even better when they went a little crazy and called her things like “tramp” and “whore,” when they changed from sweet and gentle to desperate—grabbing, clawing and cursing—caught deep in the throws of lust.

He looked down at her, his soft eyes framed with heavy black lashes. He had dark curly hair, a little long and wild. His face was unshaven with a thick, scruffy beard and mustache—more like a week's worth of neglect than a deliberate, well-trimmed beard. 

She felt the strength in his arms as she brushed against him. One glance at his hands left no doubt he could manhandle this body she was in now with ease if she let him. She knew how to play, knew how to hold her power in check and put up a weak struggle, just enough to convince him she was fighting. Oh, hell. It wouldn't take much to get him wild. He was already in a dark mood. She could skip the sweet and go right to the rough. This one was proving very interesting.

“I know what you're angling at, and I'm not interested.” He cocked his head at her and smirked. 

She didn't get that reaction often and it hit a nerve. Arrogant bastard. “I'm not a prostitute. Not hitting on you for money, just a little company on a dark night.” She turned and leaned against the bar facing out toward the crowd, both arms pulled behind her, forearms resting on the bar. She propped one foot behind her on the foot rail, thrusting her breasts out so that her shirt strained to stay buttoned and the low cut showed off seductive curves.

He turned toward her, leaning in just slightly. “You're a tempting package, but I've got other plans.” 

As he leaned toward her, she caught a flash of silver at his neck. A charm—a pentagram—a delicate piece of jewelry to be hidden behind all that denim and leather. The man was a hunter. A damned hunter had just turned her down with ease. Well, that changed the landscape a bit. It had been awhile since she'd toyed with a hunter. In fact, it had been decades.

“Fine.” She pushed off from the bar and walked slowly toward the door. She had a feeling she would be leaving Dreary Erie soon. She'd found something new to do, and after she did him, she'd wear him right out of this place.  
….............................................................................................  
John Winchester wasn't celibate, and an alluring woman like her was something he would definitely hit on—another time. She was a tempting package, so tempting he felt his mouth water, not to mention the heat that coiled in his belly. But damn if he wasn't weary to the bone, and he wanted to make an early start in the morning. 

There was only one reason he was in Erie: a poltergeist he'd quickly dispatched. He'd just as quickly collected grateful thank-yous and a little money from the family who'd been harassed by the angry spirit. He got paid sometimes for the work he did, but never enough to make a living. Mostly, he depended on credit card fraud and poker winnings to keep his small family together. 

It was nearly Christmas, and he'd promised Bobby Singer that he and the boys would spend the holiday with him in South Dakota. John had no idea why Bobby had asked or why he'd agreed for that matter. They weren't friends exactly. They were both hunters, and though they'd never hunted together, John had been by Singer Salvage to use Bobby's rather extensive library a couple of times. Bobby had books you couldn't find anywhere else. 

Once, while John was at Singer Salvage, Bobby helped him work on the Impala. Truthfully, he didn't need Bobby's help. John was a mechanic by trade and perfectly capable of keeping any car in top condition, but he needed Bobby's tools and a place to work. 

It wasn't that he didn't like Bobby, just that it had been so long since John cared about anything other than hunting and keeping his boys together—so long since he'd stayed in one place long enough to make a friend—he wasn't sure anymore what a friend was. He felt relaxed around the older man. He was easy to talk to. Bobby didn't think John was crazy, and it was nice to have someone to talk with about what's really out there. Hell, Bobby'd seen more supernatural things than John. He'd been hunting longer, and John could learn—had learned—a lot from Bobby. The simple fact was, John needed Bobby. Maybe that kinda made them friends by default. 

John nodded to the bartender and tapped the bar. Another shot and a beer and he would head back to the motel. Dean would have both himself and Sammy fed, showered and in bed by the time he got back to the room. John would shower and then pack quietly while the boys slept. He'd have his little family on the road before the boys woke up good enough to whine about it too much or hopefully at all.

John threw the whiskey down his throat, feeling the burning warmth flow to his gut. He followed the shot hastily with the cold beer and tossed a bill on the bar before he made his way toward the door. He paused briefly to pull up his hood, button and zip the couple of layers of jackets he wore and push his big hands into his leather gloves. It was bone-chilling cold outside. He'd only been three days in Erie, but he was already looking forward to getting away from the lakes and the incessant, cold, snow-laden wind.  
…..........................................................................................................  
“Aaaww,” Sam whined. I don't wanna take a shower, Dean.” 

“Don't whine, Sammy,” Dean scolded.

“Can't I take a bath? We got a bathtub. You said when we stayed where we had a bathtub, I could take a bath.” Sam was only six, but he had a memory like a steel trap, and Dean was often regretting the things he sometimes promised his brother in order to get him to mind.

“Yeah, well, you take forever in a bath.” Dean pushed Sam toward the bathroom.

“I won't. I promise. Pleeaasssee, Dean.”

Dean rolled his eyes “You will. You always do. You stay in the water until you're all blue and wrinkly. Then you catch a chill and get a snotty nose.”

“Aw, Dean,” Sam pouted. “I won't. I promise. Please?”

“You're whining again, Sammy. Stop it,” Dean admonished. “Besides, you don't have time because you dawdled over your dinner for, like, ever.” By now they had reached the shower, and Dean turned on the water, adjusting the flow and getting the temperature right while Sam undressed. “Go ahead and brush your teeth while the water's warming up.”

Later, when Dean finished his shower, hair towel-dried and combed, teeth brushed, and pj’s on, he slipped into the bed he shared with his little brother. He thought Sam might be asleep. He was curled in on himself, the covers pulled tightly around him, his back to Dean.

“Where's Dad?” Sam's tiny voice was both sleepy and sad. It was a question Dean had to answer too often.

“He's working. He'll be home soon, Sammy.”

“Will he be home tonight?” 

Dean sighed at the question and reached to rub his hand across the top of Sam's still-damp hair. “Maybe...”

“Will Dad be home in time for Christmas?”

“Maybe. I hope so.”

“Me too.” 

Dean's eyes closed and his mind drifted back to faded memories of Mom and a bright warm kitchen, cookies and winking lights on a tree.

“Can we have a Christmas tree?” Sam's voice brought Dean back to the dark, dingy motel room they'd called home for the past three days. “Lisbeth Plummer said she has a tree in her house, like the ones on TV. Harli Hanson does too. All the kids at school have trees.” 

Dean didn't answer. He didn't know what to say.

“I told a lie,” Sam confessed. “I said I had a tree too...in my living room.”

“It's okay, Sammy.”

Sam's voice dropped off to a whisper. “I don't have a tree or a living room.” 

“Don't worry about that, Sammy. I don't think we're going back to that school anyway. They'll never know the difference. After Christmas, we're gonna go to a whole new school with new kids.” 

Sam sighed. “I know.”

Dean let out what started as a fake yawn, meant to encourage Sam to get sleepy, but the yawn suddenly turned very real, right in the middle of it. “Close your eyes, Sammy. Go to sleep. I bet Dad'll be here in the morning when you wake up.”

Sam shifted a little, settling himself. “G'night, Dean.”  
…............................................................................................................  
She followed him back to his motel, watched as he entered his room and listened outside. She heard the whispered conversation. The hunter's deep voice rumbled quietly. He was answered by a child's voice, a young child. What's this? A hunter with a child in tow? She slipped silently to the door and took in a deep breath. 

It hit her like a blow. There was another one—another child that was younger. The scent of him was peculiar, different, familiar. She held her face close to the door. Opening her mouth, she took in another breath and let the taste of him roll over her tongue. It was so strong, so familiar, that her demon eyes turned black like a reflex. 

The child was human; she could feel his humanity, but deep inside, he smelled like home, like Hell. She closed her eyes and reached out, through the door and across the room, until she felt the child. His sleeping body stirred at her touch—her cold presence around his warm heart. She felt him shudder. 

Someone had claimed this child, marked him. The child had power. It was undiscovered, undeveloped, but it was there. She could feel it in him. Whoever marked this child was a very powerful demon, but she could sense no other demons near him. 

Her mind raced with questions. What demon claimed this child and then left him alone? What's this hunter's game? How did he get this child, and what's he going to do with him? 

She backed away from the door. Whatever was going on here, she was going to get to the bottom of it, and there was no doubt in her mind that she could turn this into something profitable—more than a fun night and a hunter to ride for a while. This was a gift.

When the next car pulled into the lot, the young man who got out saw only a brief shadow before his blue eyes focused on her face. It was the last thing he would ever see as acrid, sulfurous, black smoke poured from one body to the next. 

The young man looked down at the lifeless body at his feet—the body that, until recently, had been her home. Now this body was her home. She stretched the nicely-muscled body and hummed to herself. She—he—grabbed the abandoned meat-suit and dragged it into the bushes. Then he climbed back into his car and waited for the hunter to leave. New body, new ride; the hunter would never know he was being followed, not until it was too late.  
…................................................................................................  
John headed south from Erie and made his way west on old routes and back roads. It wasn't a direct route to Sioux Falls and would take longer, but he still had time before Christmas and he decided it would be better to break up the trip into several days rather than keep the boys cooped up in the car for sixteen, eighteen hours at a time. He would find some place in the afternoons—a park, perhaps a play ground—to get them out and burn off some energy before they bedded down for the night. It was a reasonable plan.

It was an eight-hour drive to Lafayette, Indiana. Adding in an extra two hours for bathroom, stretch-your-leg and lunch breaks, and John finally checked into a small roadside motel at six p.m., just in time for dinner. 

John took the boys to a diner next to the motel. It was clean and the food smelled good. Dino's had the look of a neighborhood place that had been around for years. There was a fairly good crowd, mostly appeared to be locals, and that spoke well of the food. John scanned the crowd, assessing the patrons, and steered his boys toward a table in the back corner near the rear exit—an action that was not random, but was the habit of most hunters. Never have your back to the room, and always have a close exit, just in case. 

Just as he thought, the food was good. John savored the taste of the roast beef and mashed potatoes that he pushed together on his fork. Of course, it might be he was just that hungry, or maybe he'd forgotten what real home-cooked food tasted like. No matter. He speared some green beans to follow and had a buttered roll ready to chase them.

Dean had opted for a cheeseburger and fries, but John insisted that he had to eat something green too, so Dean quickly finished off his green beans before he started in on his fries. 

Sam, on the other hand, was picky in the best of times, but tonight he seemed even more difficult to please. John finally got him to settle on a salad with ranch dressing on the side. Sam ate the cucumbers, tomatoes and carrots, dipping them in the dressing and leaving the lettuce. He picked at his chicken tenders and turned his nose up at the french fries. He fidgeted and whined and wouldn't sit still while John and Dean tried to eat.

“I don't like this food. It's gross.” Sam coughed into his shirt sleeve, a loose rattling sound. He ran his hand through his hair and dropped his head to the table, cradled in his arm.

“You want some of my cheeseburger?” Dean pushed his plate toward Sam, but Sam turned his head away and huffed.

“We're all tired, Sammy,” John admonished his son, his voice deep and stern. He didn't tolerate bad behavior, and the boys rarely acted out. He quirked an eye at his son. Something was not quite right.

Sam sat up and looked at his father. His face melted into two huge, red-rimmed eyes, and big tears began to roll down his cheeks. Dean quickly ran a hand across Sam's forehead.

“He's hot,” said Dean. 

Sam sniffed as snot now mingled with his tears. 

“I think he's got a fever.”

John looked across the table at his sons. His little Sammy looked absolutely terrified, and yes, he looked sick. Ten-year-old Dean could see it when John hadn't been able to look at his own son and tell the boy was sick. John's boys were healthy kids, and he wasn't used to either of them being sick. His stomach clenched into a tight knot. God help him, he missed his wife, Mary. He didn't have a lot of patience with sick or whiny kids, especially Sam—his little Sammy. 

Dean was tough, resilient and scrappy, built like a little tank with the self-confidence to match, but Sam was small and thin. He looked delicate, although John knew he was tougher than he looked; but Sam wore his heart on his sleeve, and his expressive eyes never failed to show exactly what he was feeling. John had no doubt he would toughen Sam up when he grew old enough for training, but for now, he worried about his youngest, and it wasn't the first time that Sam's big, sad eyes melted John's heart.

“Dean.” John motioned toward the bathroom with a nod.

“Come on, Sammy. Let's get you cleaned up.” Dean pulled Sam along with him, and John watched as the boys disappeared behind the bathroom door. He motioned for the waitress while he fished his wallet from his back pocket. He asked for take-out boxes for the rest of their meal, explaining that his son was sick. He glanced up just in time for his eyes to see the shadow of a tall, dark figure as the door closed behind it—the door that had closed behind his sons just moments ago.

It was nothing, just someone going to the bathroom. It was a public bathroom, John's head said, but something clenched tight around John's heart—hunter's instinct—and it was only seconds later that the door closed behind John as well.

John Winchester was not a small man. He was an imposing figure, road-weary and hard-edged. He knew how to intimidate, and the sight he saw was one that put his nerves on edge. Dean was at the sink with Sam, washing his brother's face. Sam's eyes were closed. He swayed like he was moments from falling asleep as he quietly allowed his brother to take care of him. The man who'd followed the boys was watching the scene intently. 

Maybe he was just waiting to use the sink, but John didn't like the way this looked. The man's body language screamed something else, something other than idly waiting. In the instant before the man turned to look toward the door and toward John, John could almost feel the man mentally reach out to grab the boys—his sons.

The man was calm—too calm—when he returned John's glare. He raised his hands, giving a slight smile, and gestured toward the sink, indicating that he came in to wash his hands and was waiting. John didn't buy it.

“Boys.” John's voice was deep, gruffer than usual. His eyes never left the man he'd followed into the room.

Dean immediately dropped the paper towels he was using to clean Sam's face into the trash and maneuvered Sam toward his father. John's voice was soft but menacing as he continued to stare at the man while speaking to his sons. “Let's get moving.”

John nudged his boys out of the door in front of him. He would remember that face. If he saw it again, it would be no coincidence, and it would not be pretty.

John carried Sammy to their room with Dean on his heels. He dosed his son with Tylenol and decongestant for the night, and Sam curled up in the bed with his dad to sleep. John lay next to the hot little body and wondered if he'd had a close call or not. Somehow he couldn't shake the feeling that if he hadn't followed his boys, if he hadn't been watching, things might have turned out very differently.  
…......................................................................................  
The demon had connected with the boy much better without walls and distance to hamper his reach, and some questions had been answered, but others had come to his mind. The child had been tainted, claimed in an ancient ritual of blood. He wondered who would have revived such an ancient, unholy ritual, and why now? 

When he'd touched the boy's mind, he'd heard echos of the boy's maker. The boy was a vessel, but for who? He'd touched the boy's heart again, just before the hunter entered the room, like he'd done the night before in the motel room. This time the dark blood had begun to sing in the demon's mind as it pulsed through the small body. The child had closed his eyes, had paled and swayed from the power of the blood. 

Something was stirring in Hell, some grand plan on a very high level, and the demon wanted to be part of that plan. The boy was his ticket to a higher level, maybe Lucifer himself. He had nearly overwhelmed the boy, if only the hunter hadn't followed them into the bathroom. The demon licked his lips at the possibilities. 

There was no doubt he could have pinned the hunter to the wall, gutted the kids while the hunter watched, and then walked out before anyone was the wiser, but that's not what he wanted, not for this child. He wanted this child, and he didn't want to leave any clues behind when he took him.  
…........................................................................................................  
John paced the little room while Dean showered. He gazed at the small body bundled up in the covers, still sleeping soundly. He could hear the raspy breath and he knew Sam was still feverish. Sam had awaken twice during the night in a fit of coughing that seemed to rattle the boy's bones. It was a deep, cavernous cough that gagged him as he brought up thick, dark mucous. John had never seen Sam so sick, and he was worried.

It wasn't just that Sam was sick. They needed food, and the encounter last night had spooked John. He didn't want to leave the boys alone. He wanted to pack them up and get on down the road, away from this place, away from danger, but Sam was too sick to travel. 

John rummaged through his supplies and pulled out a bottle of water and liquid Children's Tylenol. He sat on the bed next to Sam and gently pulled him into a sitting position, leaning the boy up against his chest.

“Sammy?” John ran his hand across Sam's forehead, brushing his bangs out of his face. His cheeks were flushed and his lips dry and red. “Sammy? I need you to wake up and drink some water, son.” 

Sam's eyes fluttered. Long dark lashes framed his unfocused hazel eyes. He blinked a few times and then his mouth opened on a hoarse whisper. “Dad?”

“I got you Sammy. I need you to drink some water for me and take some more medicine.” He laid the water bottle on Sam's lips.

“Uh-uh.” Sam shook his head and pushed the bottle away. He scrubbed his face on John's chest and whined. John let out a worried sigh and hugged his son.

Dean came out of the bathroom, his freshly washed hair neatly combed, with clean clothes and freshly-brushed teeth. He was the perfect little soldier. Dean was regimented to his routine, and even as young as he was, he needed little instruction. True to his nature, John could see Dean quickly assess the situation and come to his brother's side.

Dean took the water bottle from his father and ran his other hand through Sam's hair. “Come on, Sammy,” he cooed softly in his brother's ear. “Drink some water. It'll make you feel better.”

Sam turned and blinked his eyes at Dean before rubbing them with his knuckles. “Dean, I don't feel good.”

“I know, Sammy.” Dean placed one hand on the nape of Sam's neck and held the water up to his mouth. “Quit being a baby and drink some water.”

Dean managed to get half a bottle of water into Sam and the last dose of Tylenol they had. Then John put him back to bed and tucked him in.

“Come here.” John motioned for Dean to follow him to the little table by the window. He didn't need to tell Dean what was in the small duffel he placed on the table. Dean knew the contents well: salt, an iron rod, a silver knife and a small handgun. John had taught him how and when to use each item. 

“Sammy's too sick to move, so we're gonna stay here another day.” 

Dean nodded his understanding. 

“I'm going out to book the room another night. Then I need to get some more meds and some food for us. I'll be as quick as I can. You watch out for Sammy.”

“I will, Dad.”

“I'll get extra towels...” John gazed at his son. He didn't like leaving the boys, not now, not here, but they needed supplies if they were going to hunker down and ride out Sam's sickness. “Don't let anybody in, Dean. Nobody.” He laid his hand on Dean's shoulder.

“Okay, Dad.” Dean's voice was small. He gazed up at John with questioning eyes.

“I won't be long.”

TBC


	2. Flight of the Impala

Hunting for Christmas  
Chapter Two – Flight of the Impala

She hated doing the laundry in the summertime, when the room was stifling hot and so humid she couldn't even sweat; but now, she didn't mind so much. The machines gave off moist heat that felt good against the dry cold of winter. The room smelled of bleach, wet cement and mold, but she was used to it. She hummed to herself as she pulled warm towels from the dryer, folding them and stacking them neatly on her linen cart. It was a comforting routine ingrained from years of repetition, a mindless job that left her imagination free to wander. 

There was an almost imperceptible shift in the light when the man's body filled the doorway. A chill swept over her, like someone just stepped over her grave, as the old saying goes. She shivered and turned toward him. Her nose filled with the smell of sulfur, and her heart filled with dread. The look on his face was clear. She was about to die.

He lunged toward her. She ducked, grabbed a bottle of bleach, and threw it at him. He easily dodged it and smiled at her, raising his hands and shoulders in a mocking question. You think you can fight me? He stood between her and the door, her only way out. She tried to run, but he cut her off and laughed, a dark, joyless sound.

His black, emotionless eyes caught her and held her frozen with fear as she gazed into those twin pits of despair. She felt his bruising fingers gripping her arms, pulling her to him, holding her face to face. She gasped, and her throat burned with the acrid taste of sulfur as her body filled with blackness. She wanted to scream, but her voice was no longer her own. She was no longer herself. She sank into the blackness and was no more.

She rubbed her hands along her thighs, drying her sweaty palms against the pink polyester of her maid uniform. This was not a bad body to ride, a little older than she usually rode, but it was strong from years of labor. She ran her hands through her graying hair, pulling it tighter into the clasp at the nape of her neck, before she stepped over the lifeless meat suit at her feet and began pushing the linen cart toward the rooms. She'd burned through that body quickly, and she left it without a backward glance.

Even if she hadn't known which room, she would have found him. She was drawn to him. His tainted blood pulled her in like a magnet. She could feel the boy through the door, taste the demon blood pumping through his veins. Her body hummed with excitement. The hunter was gone. He'd left the boy vulnerable, an easy target. This time, she would take him.

The rumble of the V8 327 4 Barrel was hard to miss. She'd heard that sound for the past two days following the Impala from Erie. Damn this hunter and his great timing. She turned and watched as he pulled into the spot in front of his room. He jerked open the Impala's door, slamming it behind him as he made his way quickly to her.

Looming over her, he growled at her through clenched teeth, “I told the desk clerk no maid service.”

She plastered an innocent smile on her face and answered him calmly. “I'm sorry, sir. I didn't get that message.” 

He leaned in closer, glaring at her. “I put out the do-not-disturb sign.” 

If she were a human, the hunter would be intimidating. “I didn't see a sign.” Her eyes fell to the doorknob and his eyes followed. There was no sign hanging from the door. “I'm sorry, sir.” She finally managed to make herself look a little contrite, hiding the anger she felt. “Would you like towels or—”

“I have everything I need.” He jammed the key in the door, swiftly unlocking it. Then he slipped inside the room and slammed the door behind him. 

….........................................................................................................

John hesitated at the door, his eyes adjusting from the bright morning light outside to the dim interior of the motel room. “Dean?” His eyes fell on his sons. Dean was lying back on the bed, remote in hand, watching an old horror movie. Sam was bundled under the covers next to him, only the top of his head with his tousled brown hair sticking out. 

“Yeah, Dad.” Dean looked up from the TV. “You okay?”

“Did anything happen while I was gone?” 

“No. Sammy's been asleep the whole time, and I was just watching a movie.” His questioning eyes followed his dad across the room as John checked all the corners and the bathroom. “Everything all right, Dad?”

“Yeah, fine.” John was certain that things were anything but all right. He'd only been gone an hour, maybe less, and it took just that short time for his sons to be in danger again. He'd been specific with the motel's desk clerk when he booked another night. He picked up clean towels himself, told the clerk no maid service, and left the do-not-disturb sign on the door. Yet, when he came back with supplies, there was the maid, lurking outside his room. 

He wasn't sure. It could all be innocent, but this whole trip was beginning to put his hunter's nerves on edge way too often. Both the man yesterday and the maid today were too cool in the face of his anger. It wasn't how people usually reacted to him when he was obviously suspicious or angry. Something was wrong in this place. Something was very wrong.   
….........................................................................................................

Bobby sipped on his coffee and turned the pages of the ancient book he'd dug out of his library. He hadn't read this book yet. It was one he ran across in a quaint book store in Baltimore while he was on a hunt. His library was filled with old finds he didn't need at the time he bought them but thought he might have use for in the future. It seemed the future was now, and John Winchester was the one that was bringing it on.

He'd only known John for a couple of years. They'd met, like most everybody else Bobby knew, through hunting circles. Travis brought him by one day when the two of them were investigating what turned out to be a Kappa, a Japanese water goblin. 

It was several months later before John came by with his boys in tow for the first time. He was looking for some help researching a particularly old and nasty demon he called Dever. Bobby had to admit he hadn't been particularly thrilled about John bringing the kids along. Hunting seemed an odd career choice for a single parent. Bobby himself had made the choice not to have kids because...well, that was a different story altogether. But after Karen died and he was drawn into hunting, he was thankful he didn't have kids. Unlike Bobby, John already had kids when he was lured into hunting by the death of his wife. 

In all fairness, the boys were well behaved and mostly quiet. Bobby wondered if he'd do the same thing if he was in John's shoes. When you lose your wife, the love of your life to the supernatural, something cold and hard takes root inside you, and it drives you. It kind of makes you want to settle the score with things.

John was like most hunters Bobby knew. Most were men, and John was a man's man. He was ex-military, well disciplined, and driven—all common threads in the hunting community. John hunted the usual vamps, werewolves, ghosts and a host of other murderous creatures, but John had an obsession with demons that other hunters didn't. 

The occasional demon would rear its ugly head, but they weren't common. In fact, they were rare. Demons had always been few and far between, but John was convinced they were out there and that it was a demon that killed his wife. It was John's obsession that had Bobby digging into his ancient books and reading up on demons. 

Bobby took another gulp from his coffee mug, glanced at the clock and sighed. It was too early to crack open a bottle yet. His fingers trembled as he traced along the words on the faded page. Nasty creatures, these demons. He shook his head. Nasty.  
…......................................................................................................

By early afternoon, cops were crawling all over the motel. They stopped at every room to question the guests. When they came to question John, he flashed his FBI ID and radiated the confidence he'd honed over the past few years. He managed to glean information from the investigating officers, and when he saw the bodies, it was all he could do to keep the near panic that swam inside him from showing on his face.

He berated himself and cursed softly when he returned to his room. He should have followed his instincts. He should have packed the kids up, sick Sammy and all, and hightailed it out of this place when he had the chance.   
….................................................................................................................

“John?” Bobby answered his phone, a little surprised. “I thought you would be here by this evening. Where are you?”

“Lafayette, Indiana.” John's deep voice hummed over the wire.

“Lafayette? What the hell are you doing in Lafayette? That's not exactly on the way here from Erie.”

“Well, I took the scenic route. I don't like toll roads, and I'm not too fond of the major highways either.”

Bobby nodded, uh-huh'd and paced as he listened to John tell him what had happened. “Well, that's the scenic route all right.” Bobby scrubbed his hand across the stubble on his jaw. “You say a body was found near the motel where you stayed in Erie and now two bodies in Lafayette?” 

“Yes. The man whose body they found in the laundry room tried to corner my boys in the restaurant next door last night.”

“You sure it was the same man?”

“Yes. And the maid they found dead—I came back from a supply run and found her lurking outside my room.” Bobby could hear the frustration in John's voice. “Sam's sick, Bobby—real sick. That's why I stayed an extra day in Lafayette. I felt like he was too sick to travel, now I'm thinking it wasn't such a good idea.” 

“Well, it could be a shape-shifter.”

“Not if it's the same thing that killed the woman in Erie.”

“Yeah. Shifters tend to hole up in one place and wreak havoc. I've never known one to travel like that.”

“Yeah. And when they shift, the bodies they shed are a mess. These aren't like that. They just look like normal, dead bodies.” There was a breath of silence before John sighed into the phone. “I think it's a demon, and it's after my boys.”

“But why? What would a demon want with the boys?” Several possibilities passed through Bobby's head and he didn't like any of them. “Listen, you pack up those boys, sick or not, and shag ass up to my place. I've been studying on demons and I got a few new tricks.”

“It's about fourteen hours from here, and that's just drive time.” Bobby could hear the worry in John's voice. “I should be there tomorrow afternoon.”

“Be careful, John. Don't let the boys out of your sight.”

“They're my boys, Bobby. I'll be careful.” The following moment of silence between the two men spoke loudly of sympathy, understanding, and worry. 

“Listen, I know a couple of hunters in the area. I'll put a tail on you. Get on I-80 as soon as you can and head west. The Impala'll be easy to pick up.” Bobby shuffled through some papers. “Travis should be checking in with me soon. You know his van, and Caleb's in the area. He's a young fella, but he was raised in the life. Red-headed son-of-a-bitch drives a bright blue Chevy 3500 diesel. Keep an eye out for them. They'll watch your back.

John's voice was soft when he answered. “Thanks, Bobby.”

“Just get yourself and those boys here ASAP . . . and call me whenever you stop. Don't leave me worrying over your ass.” 

Bobby hung up his phone and stopped his pacing. It was a damn good thing he'd bought all those old books he'd thought he'd never use. There was a sudden sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach—just a quick moment—and it felt like something in the world had turned, something that centered around John Winchester. He brushed the thought off quickly. He had some painting to do and some Latin to learn.

….................................................................................................

John packed up while the boys slept. It was two a.m. when he bundled Sam in a blanket and carried him to the car, herding Dean in front of him. He stuffed a pillow under Sam's head and tucked the blanket snugly around the sleeping boy.

“You ride up front with me, Dean.” John pulled a map out of the glove compartment and handed it to Dean. “You're my co-pilot.” Dean took the map, unfolded it and quickly followed the red line John had drawn on it. “We're driving straight through to Sioux Falls. You know what that means.”

“That's a long trip.” Dean's lips pursed in concentration and he studied the map intently.

“It'll take us all night and most of the next day.” John watched his son carefully. “Keep an eye on Sammy for me. Make sure he gets his meds and fluids.”

“Okay, dad. I got it covered.” 

John smiled, patting Dean on the shoulder. “That's my boy.”

John didn't need a co-pilot, and it wasn't long before Dean crawled over the seat back and snuggled up with Sam, his head pillowed on Sam's bony little hips, both sleeping peacefully. As he checked in the rearview mirror, the sight should have warmed his heart, but John felt the cold, hard grip of anger. The son-of-a-bitch that killed Mary was after his boys now. He could feel it in his bones. It had to be a demon. What else could it be? Nothing else fit the profile, nothing that he knew, nothing that Bobby knew. 

Part of John wanted to stop, hole up somewhere and wait for the damn thing to show up. He wanted to fight. The dark anger that had festered in him for the past five years was burning to catch this thing and kill it. For the first time since this nightmare started, he felt like he was close to the demon, so close he could taste revenge. He was thirsty for it, and he couldn't get the bitter taste of it out of his mouth. While his sons slept, he gnawed on his anger like a dog on a bone.

After three hours, John stopped at a Pump 'n' Go south of Joliet where he would get on I-80 heading west. He needed gas, they needed food, and he wanted to talk to Bobby. 

“Dean?” John reached over the seat back and rubbed his hand across Dean's head. He glanced at Sam and saw two owlish hazel eyes blinking at him. “Hey, Sammy.” John's voice softened as he looked over the small face flushed with fever, lips dry and chapped. “Feeling any better?”

Sam sighed and seemed to think about John's question for a moment. Perhaps he wanted to please his dad and say yes, but truth won out, and he closed his eyes and scrubbed his nose with the back of his hand. “Uh-uh.”

“It's okay, son.” 

By now, Dean was sitting up looking out of the window. “Where are we?”

“Just outside of Joliet. I'm gonna gas up and then we're all going inside together.” John opened his door, placed one foot on the pavement and paused. He eyed Dean in the rearview mirror. “You hungry?”

“Uh-uh,” Sam whined and turned his face into the pillow.

“Yeah,” Dean answered. “I'll take Sammy. We can go ahead to the bathroom—”

“No, Dean. I want us to stay together. I wanna keep my eye on both of you.”

“Why? What's the matter, Dad?” 

Dean was obviously confused, but John didn't have time or patience for explanations. “Dean!” John's voice was sharp, and Dean's confusion was immediately replaced with obedience.

“Yes, sir,” he replied in crisp military fashion.

After John filled the Impala's tank, he pulled the car closer to the store entrance and waited while Dean coaxed Sam out of the car. Sam followed Dean on weak, wobbly legs, blinking against the bright lights and holding tightly to the back of his brother's jacket. 

John herded the boys in front of him, eyeing everyone in the store. They all looked suspicious. The man ringing the Salvation Army bell practically leered at the boys. John gave him a glare that was sure to knock a normal human flat, but the man only smiled, nodded, and rang his bell at John as he passed. 

The woman behind the counter, incessantly smacking and popping her gum, followed their every move as they made their way to the bathroom. Her eyes were still on the door when the three of them exited ten minutes later. 

John pulled water and Gatorade out of the cooler. He glanced down at Dean next to him pulling out a container of chocolate milk.

“For Sam,” Dean answered his dad's questioning look. John stared at Dean in horror. Dean's face morphed into a mask of panic. They both looked frantically around. No Sam . . . Sammy was gone.

John widened his frenzied search until his eyes fell on Sam. His son, his small, sick little Sammy stood before the Christmas tree at the front of the store. John and Dean moved immediately to get to Sam's side. Sam was mesmerized by the brightly lit tree, staring up at it with unblinking eyes. His small hand trembled as he reached up to touch a shiny red ball

A dark-haired woman next to him cooed at Sam. “Poor baby,” she told him. “You don't feel so good?” 

John nearly pulled his gun when she reached to stroke Sam's head, but she only gave John a sympathetic look, unfazed by his anger.

He pulled Sam away from the overly friendly woman and the tree, picked up some sandwiches and chips, and he nearly snarled at the cashier, thoroughly convinced she was still leering at his sons. She only popped her gum and swiped his credit card. 

They couldn't all be demons, could they? 

As they walked back out to the car, John carried Sam, legs wrapped around John's waist, his arms draped across his dad's shoulders and his head buried in John's neck.

“Can we get a Christmas tree?” Sam whispered in his dad's ear.

John took a deep breath and steeled himself. He had to get a grip. “I'll try my best, son.”

He felt better when the boys were in the back seat of the Impala. Dean scrambled around to lock all the doors. Somehow John felt they were safer within the steel walls of his pride and joy, his baby. Once he got inside her and back on the road, he would feel better too, but he needed to call Bobby first.

“I'm just south of Joliet. I'll be getting on I-80 here,” John told a sleepy-sounding Bobby. He kept his eyes on the Impala as he leaned against the clear wall of the phone booth. He hated calling from this isolated booth at the far edge of the parking lot. He was a sitting duck here—wide open for the demon to see. But he had to keep the boys in sight and he couldn't do that from the pay phone inside the store. He supposed he was lucky the ancient relic was still functional. 

“All right. Good. Looks like you're still about twelve hours or so out from here. You doing okay?”

“No. I just made a pit stop, and I swear, Bobby, everybody in this place is leering at my boys and me.” John's voice was shaking with rage. “You think maybe there's more than one demon? Jesus, Bobby. I don't even know how to fight these things. Beheading? You think silver might work? You find anything on killing the bastards yet? Tell me what you know. If one of them gets hold of my boys—” 

“John, hold on, man. It sounds like you're gettin' a little paranoid, jumping to conclusions. You need to calm down.” He paused, giving his words a moment to sink in. “I don't think there's more than one. If there were a bunch of 'em, they'd have rushed you by now.”

John took a deep breath. Bobby had a calming effect on him, thank God, and he didn't feel like he was in this fight alone. “I almost smoked some lady for being sympathetic to Sam,” John confessed.

“Well, almost don't count, so it looks like you have some control. That's good.”

“It's not much control. Part of me thinks I should stand and fight, meet this bastard head on.”

“No, John. You want to fight that thing, that's your business, but you get those boys out of harm's way first. Don't you use those kids for bait!”

Bait. The word hung ominously in the air, and John swallowed hard. That's exactly what he'd been thinking. A blush of shame crawled across his face. “I wouldn't do that, Bobby. I just wish I knew how to defend them.”

“I'm working on it, John. I've found some things we can use to defend ourselves but no way to kill the demon. Anyway, once you get on the highway, you should be meeting up with Travis and Caleb. They'll caravan with you 'til you get here. There's safety in numbers.”

“Yeah, I hope so.”

John felt better after talking with Bobby. As he headed for the Impala, he could feel the comforting calm begin to flow through his body. It didn't last long. When he came around the back of the car, he saw a man walking straight toward him, and John's calm flew right out of him.

He was a young man. He looked to be about twenty, with closely-trimmed, dark-red hair and a golden stubble of a beard. He was big, broad-shouldered, and he walked purposefully toward John. John glared a warning at the boy-man, every nerve in him on edge, his hand reaching to draw his gun.

“John Winchester?” The young man flashed him a toothy grin. “I'm Caleb. Bobby asked me to meet you. I understand you need someone to watch your back.”

John eyed the man warily. “Son-of-a-bitch,” he hissed. “I almost shot you.”

“I know.” Caleb's grin got impossibly bigger and he slapped his chest. “Body armor. Plus, I was ready to duck.” 

“You can't duck a bullet, boy.”

“I can try.” Caleb's laugh echoed across the empty parking lot, rich and deep—and strangely comforting. “My truck's over there.” He nodded toward a big, bright blue monster of a truck.

“Be hard to miss that one,” John commented wryly. There was something about the young man. He was easy going, easy to trust.

“Yeah, I know,” Caleb said, smiling proudly. “Ready to hit the road? It's a long trip.”

The Impala had an engine that was made to fly. She ate up miles as John pushed her to her limit, sucking gas through her powerful engine like fine champagne. It didn't bother John much when his speed drifted down and his eyes got a little heavy that the big blue Chevy pulled alongside the Impala. Caleb's big, boyish grin shone down through the window as he pulled ahead. John gunned the Impala in order to pull back in front of the other hunter. 

The second time they played leapfrog like that, Dean's face was in the window, grinning back at Caleb, wide and boyish. Caleb tapped his horn twice as he pulled ahead, and Dean laughed. 

They stopped for a late breakfast around ten in Newton, Iowa. Both vehicles were ready for a fill-up. Dean was restless, and Sam had been sitting up sipping on Gatorade for the past thirty minutes. John thought that was a good sign, but Sam still looked pale. He sniffled and coughed a bit, but the cough wasn't as deep and he was less flushed from fever.

They all sat together in a booth at the Biggerson's next to the gas station. John sat next to Sammy, blocking him from view and shielding him from prying eyes. Caleb followed John's lead and waited for Dean to climb into the booth before sitting next to him.

“Boys, this is Caleb,” John said, introducing the man to his sons.

“We already met,” Dean said, and the two of them flashed their wide, boyish grins at each other as if they'd been friends forever.

“I'm hungry as hell,” Caleb told Dean. “How 'bout you?”

“Yeah.” Dean giggled a little and cut his eyes at John. John didn't say anything, but he gave Dean a look that let the boy know he heard the profanity and not to try anything. John's rule for his sons concerning profanity was that they could hear it, but they better not repeat it. He didn't want to hear cussing coming from his children's mouths, even if he himself cussed on occasion.

Caleb blushed and cleared his throat. Apparently, he understood the silent conversation between father and son. “I'm gonna have this 'Country Breakfast.'” He pointed to a picture on the glossy, plastic-covered menu. “Eggs, bacon, hash browns and pancakes. Mmm.” He looked down at Dean. “What do you think?”

“Yeah. That's what I want, too,” Dean answered.

“Okay,” John nodded. “How about you, Sammy? You see anything you think you can eat?”

Sam scanned the pictures of the different breakfasts on the menu. He turned even paler than he already was and looked up at John, then closed his eyes and sighed. He looked as if he was trying to hold down his stomach, but John knew there was nothing in his stomach but Gatorade and water. Sam looked small and weak. His shoulders trembled and he opened his eyes again, staring up at John.

“Eggs.” Sam's weak little voice was just a whisper as he forced the word out. 

“Want some milk?” John asked. He needed to get some calories into the boy. It had been too long since he'd eaten anything. 

Sam nodded his agreement.

“Hey, little guy.” Caleb's voice was uncharacteristically soft, and he toned down his wide smile. “You been sick, huh?” 

Sam turned toward the big man and nodded. 

“Feeling a little better now?” 

Sam nodded again and leaned against John. 

“That's good,” said Caleb.

Sam turned and buried his face into John's sleeve, his small hands clutching at the leather. John scrubbed his hand through his son's tousled, golden-brown hair. 

“'S tough when the little ones get sick,” said Caleb, turning a sympathetic eye to John.

When the waitress came to take their order, she flirted shamelessly with Caleb. His bright smile and knowing looks made her blush. She fluttered around the table, bringing extra butter and syrup, keeping coffee cups filled, offering extra of anything and everything. 

For his part, Caleb flirted just as much, calling her sweetheart and watching her every move. He smiled and winked at her from across the room so many times, she became flustered and could hardly do her job—except at their table, where everything was perfect and abundant. She practically hovered over them, smiling and giggling at Caleb's winks and cooing over the boys. “Aw,” she said to Sammy. She reached to touch his face, but he sank back into the seat, hiding behind John.

Sam picked at his eggs, eating only a spoonful, but managed to drink his milk. John was glad of that, at least, but Sam couldn't seem to keep his eyes open. He shoved his plate away and cradled his head in his arm on the table. Tears ran down his flushed cheeks, and a little hand fisted in his shirt, clutching at his chest. “I don't feel good,” he whispered.

Caleb picked up the bill. “I got this. You get Sammy to the car.” He stood, his eyes on John. “Dean, you come with me.”

John jumped up quickly and squared off with Caleb. The two men stood at the end of the booth, eye to eye. “You can take care of the bill,” said John. “I'll owe you, but both boys stay with me.”

Caleb's eyes softened. “All right. I understand. 'S not a problem. I'll meet you at the car.”

John hoisted Sam up in his arms and nodded for Dean to lead the way. Dean gave Caleb a forlorn look as they passed him at the cashier's counter. Caleb only smiled at the boy and gave him a little wink. John could see Dean's disappointment. Dean liked the young man, but John thought he was a little too friendly, too at ease. He'd come too close to separating him from Dean, and it put John's nerves on edge.

John got Sammy settled in the backseat, medicated and tucked in. He lingered at the Impala's back door gazing at his son, already sleeping, cheeks once again flushed with fever. John had thought the boy was getting better. He'd looked better before they went into the diner, but Sam was getting sicker again. In just that brief moment, things had turned around.

John looked up to see Caleb approaching. He tensed as the two of them once again stood eye to eye. 

Caleb's face seemed earnest. “Listen, man—”

“Sir!” The waitress's voice cut through the tension and both men turned toward her. She was running after them, a swan-shaped aluminum container in her hand. “You should take this with you.” 

John sighed and looked back at Caleb. Honestly, this girl was a little overboard. Caleb had a strange, unreadable look on his face. Before John had time to consider what Caleb might be thinking, the waitress had reached them, holding out the swan to them like a prize.

“Ah, darling,” Caleb drawled. “Not smart.” He slugged her with a right hook and quickly followed by pulling her arms behind her to restrain her. “Not smart at all.” He grinned the words into her ear.

John saw no innocence in her face as she snarled a devilish look. Bucking back against the massive man that held her tiny figure, she flipped him over her head in an impossible move, back to front, until he was laid out at her feet, stunned. “Stupid red-neck,” she growled.

When she lifted her eyes, John was ready, machete drawn and moments from separating her head from her body. He gazed into the dead, black eyes of the demon and was stunned to inaction when her mouth flew open as if to scream. Black smoke poured out of her, coiling and rolling into the sky above them in a long snake. The acrid smell of sulfur filled his nostrils, and the girl dropped to the ground beside a speechless Caleb.

The two men stared dumbfounded at the billowing snake of smoke making its way across the sky. It was Caleb who found his voice first. “What the hell was that?” He tore his eyes away from the sky and stared at John. “Is that what's been chasing you? I never saw anything like that. Damn!”

John looked into the young hunter's wide, blue eyes. “It's a demon.”

“A demon?” Caleb drew back as if John had some kind of crazy that would rub off on him. “A goddamn demon? You got to be kidding me. A demon was after you?”

“Stop it.” John shifted his eyes meaningfully toward the car. “You'll scare the boys.”

Caleb lowered his voice. “Damn, man. I'm sorry. It's just . . . I've never run across a demon. Don't know anybody that has. I mean . . . I thought all the demon possession crap was just stuff the Catholics made up to keep people in line.” Caleb shook his head. “Shit, what'd you do to get a demon on your ass?”

John responded to Caleb's questions with a pointed look.

“Okay, okay.” Caleb raised his hands in surrender and picked himself up from the ground. “Did you kill it? Is it gone for good, or is it just retreating to come at you from some other poor, unfortunate . . . ” He looked down at the dead body of the waitress he'd flirted with for the last hour. His face suddenly paled and he stumbled over his words. “Was she a demon? Just how does this work?”

“Damn, son.” John scrubbed his hand through his beard. “You ask a lot of questions.”

“Yeah, but they're good questions.” Caleb found his grin once again, flashing it at John.

“There's a lot I don't know, but I know we need to get back on the road and make tracks toward Bobby's. I don't think we're free of this thing yet.” John hesitated, clearing his throat. “Um . . . thanks, Caleb. I owe you one.”

“Hell, you owe me more than one.” Caleb's loud laughter rang out over the parking lot, and he winked at the boy whose big green eyes stared out of the Impala's back window.

TBC


	3. Merry Gentlemen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Sam's Folly for being a great Beta!

_**Hunting for Christmas** _

_**Chapter Three – God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen** _

 

John Winchester continued to push the Impala west on I-80, playing leapfrog with Caleb in his big blue Chevy truck. Caleb kept up his good-natured playfulness, grinning and tapping on his horn, but John knew he had an ulterior motive.  He was making sure John stayed awake because he was pushing thirty-six hours without any sleep, and he'd had precious little over the past week. 

 

Sometimes, Dean would sit in the front seat next to John watching him, asking him questions, changing cassettes in the tape player when John didn't notice that they were listening to the same tape a second time.  Dean watched for Caleb's truck to pass them so he could grin and pump his fist, while Caleb grinned back and tapped his horn. Other times, Dean would slip over the seat and sit with Sammy, checking to see if he was still feverish, coaxing him to drink Gatorade or just watching him while he slept. Sam slept most of the time, feverish and fretful.

 

They picked up Travis outside of Iowa City. Caleb pulled alongside John, motioning to make a pit stop. John nodded because he needed gas, and Travis followed them off the highway to the first gas station they came to.

 

“John?” Travis greeted. The two men clasped hands, and Travis clapped John on the shoulder. “I see you've already met up with Caleb.” He nodded toward the young hunter, who was gassing up his truck at the next pump over from the Impala.

 

“Yeah. Seems to be a good man.” John's hands shook as he ran them through his hair.

 

“Damn, John. You look like hell.” Travis's voice was full of concern. His eyes fell on Dean, staring out at him from the back window of the Impala. “Bobby said you had the boys with you. The little one still sick?”

 

“Yeah. I'm afraid he's no better. If anything, he's worse.” John let out a shaky sigh.

 

“Travis?” Caleb came over to join the two men. “You wouldn't believe the crap this man's into.”

 

“I can believe a lot,” Travis answered.

 

“The man's got a fucking demon on his ass.” There was no trace of Caleb's wide grin as he watched Travis's uncomprehending face. “An honest-to-God demon . . . for real . . . I saw it . . . with my own eyes.”  

 

“You mean like a—” 

 

“I mean like a straight-out-of-Hell, damned-to-Hell demon.” Caleb and Travis both looked at John—Caleb apparently seeking backup and Travis seeking confirmation. 

 

John raised his hands to try to calm the two men before things got out of hand. “It's a demon,” he said, confirming Caleb's story.

 

Caleb paced a few steps, shaking his head. “The man's a shit magnet if I ever saw one, I mean, I've never hunted a demon; don't know anybody who has.  You?”

 

“I've heard tell—”

 

“Look.” John's patience was wearing thin. “Bobby's doing research on this. He's found some information. I just need to get to Bobby's. I need to get my kids off the road and get them to safety.” 

 

John was losing his grip. This trip had turned into one giant nightmare. He was sleep-deprived, his nerves were worn raw, and all he could think was these two seemed to want to blame him for all this shit, as if it was somehow his fault. “I don't need this crap!” He nailed first Caleb, then Travis with dark, hard eyes. “I thought Bobby sent you two out to help me, not to interrogate me.” He jerked the gas pump out of the Impala and slammed it back into its cradle. “If you're not gonna help me, get the fuck out of my way.”

 

“Now hold on, John,” Travis said. “We are here to help, and nobody's trying to interrogate you. We're just a little amazed, maybe.”

 

Caleb stepped back, holding up his hands. “I'm sorry, John. I got your back.  You know I do. But Travis deserves to know what he's up against. I already know. I've seen it, and I'm still here. I'm gonna see this through all the way to Bobby's.” He turned to Travis. “How 'bout you, Travis?  You willing to see this through?”

 

“Yeah, I'm in.”

 

Caleb's wide grin finally made an appearance. “Well, what do you say, John?  You ready to get this caravan back on the road?” 

 

John nodded and watched as the young hunter held his head up high and marched back to his truck.

 

“I'm not sure I know quite what to think of that boy,” John said as he turned to Travis. 

 

“He's a good boy,” Travis reassured him. “He's a good hunter, too. Been hunting with his dad and an uncle since he was about fifteen or so. A little excitable, maybe, but that's just because he's young, I guess.” Travis gazed after Caleb as the young hunter settled himself in his truck, ready to continue on this mission. “You can trust him.”

 

John felt a little better. He'd hunted with Travis more than a few times. Travis had been hunting for years—longer than Bobby—and John had learned a lot from the man.  For the most part, he got along with Travis and trusted him as much as he trusted anybody. Maybe that made them friends by default. Perhaps he could be friends with Caleb, too. The guy did seem to have good instincts, and he was good in a fight. Another friend by default. John climbed into the Impala, a little smile curling his lips. Seems he was gaining a few friends, even if it was by default.

….........................................................................

The caravan stopped once more just north of Omaha, where they intended to pick up I-29 North to Sioux Falls. Three more hours on the road, and they would be at Bobby's. 

 

The men argued again as they gassed up. Caleb was worked up and bitching about John's driving. He insisted that John was getting worse, and keeping him awake was nearly impossible. He said John was a danger to himself, his sons and everybody else on the road. It was all Travis could do to keep the two hunters from getting into a fistfight. John grumbled that Caleb needed his big kid's ass beat, and Caleb smirked that when he knocked John's ass out, he'd be doing everybody on the interstate a favor.

 

Finally, Travis managed to cut through John's clouded judgment and get him to take an hour's nap in the Impala's front seat while Sam continued to sleep in the back.  Travis and Caleb took Dean to get something to eat. Dean picked at his food, worrying about Sam, until Caleb ordered cherry pie. The two men drank coffee and struggled not to talk about demons in front of Dean.

 

 

…..............................................................................................

It was nearly eight p.m. when Bobby heard the Impala's engine rumbling up the driveway. He went to meet the caravan as Caleb's truck and finally Travis's van pulled in behind John.

 

“John?” Bobby greeted his friend. “You look awful.”

 

“You should'a seen him before we made him stop and take a nap.” Caleb came up behind Bobby.

 

John ducked his head, a resigned smile on his face. “I owe you for that one, I guess. Thanks.”

 

“You owe me quite a few, you stubborn bastard.” Caleb's words were harsh, but his broad, bright smile had returned.

 

“Damn if these two hotheads ain't a handful and a half,” Travis said as he joined the group.

 

“Well, lets get your stuff in the house.” Bobby helped John unload his duffel bags from the trunk of the Impala.

 

Dean appeared at the side of the car, his dark blond hair cropped short and his green eyes tired. “Sammy's still 'sleep,” he yawned.

 

“Dean, can you speak to Uncle Bobby?” John reminded.

 

John did instill respect into the boys.  Bobby would give him that.

 

“Hey, Uncle Bobby.” Dean stepped around behind his father to where Bobby was standing and extended his hand.

 

Bobby took the small hand in his and gave the boy an affectionate pat on the back with his other hand—not quite a hug, but he wasn't sure the boy would appreciate a full-out bear hug. Best to take things slow. “Hey, Dean. Are you hungry?”

 

Dean nodded.

 

“Good. I made Lasagna for dinner.” Bobby placed a hand on the boy's back, steering him toward the house. “How 'bout you boys?” he asked, turning to look back at Travis and Caleb. “You stayin' for dinner?”

 

Caleb quickly fell into step with Bobby and Dean. “Bobby Singer's world-famous Lasagna? You bet your—”

 

“Watch your language, boy,” Bobby groused. “There's children around.” He looked at Dean. “Children with big ears that I better not hear repeating any of Caleb's bad language.”

 

Dean grinned up at Bobby, acknowledging and ignoring Bobby's warning at the same time. “I never ate any Lasagnas before.” He said the word like he thought it was something made up. 

 

“You like Spaghetti?” Caleb chimed in.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Well, you'll like Lasagna,” the young hunter assured him. “It's kinda like Spaghetti's cousin.” 

 

Bobby rolled his eyes and looked back to see Travis walking alongside John, who cradled in his arms a sleeping Sam, wrapped in a blanket. 

…..........................................................................................................

Travis left first, refusing dinner in favor of getting home to his family. 

 

Sam wasn't able to eat Lasagna, but Bobby had some chicken noodle soup he microwaved.  Dean managed to get some of the soup into his sick little brother before John carried Sam to bed and tucked him in. 

 

After dinner, John walked Caleb out to his truck. Apparently, the two men had developed a bond during this ordeal. It was volatile. Bobby could see the same headstrong nature in both hunters, but there seemed to be a grudging respect. It wouldn't surprise Bobby to see the two men hunting together if—Bobby stopped dead in his musings. There might not be any more hunting for John. In fact, there might not be a future for John or the boys at all if they didn't get this demon thing sorted out. 

 

Once Caleb was gone, Bobby and John settled at Bobby's desk with mugs of coffee and several ancient texts surrounding them. “Little Sammy looks pretty bad.” Bobby glanced at John but didn't keep his eyes on the man long, not wanting to seem judgmental and piss John off. “It ain't no run-of-the-mill cold he's got, is it?” Bobby absently turned a couple of pages in the book lying in front of him. He wanted to give John a chance to talk, but he didn't want to press.

 

“No. He gets better, and then he gets worse.” John looked squarely at Bobby. His eyes were red-rimmed, his hair greasy.  His face was drawn and covered with a few days growth of his thick, dark beard. The man was exhausted. “Every time the demon has been near, Sammy's gotten worse. Sometimes he's gotten worse when I haven't seen the demon, but I think the demon's been near without showing himself . . . or herself.”

 

“Equal opportunity possessor. Nice,” Bobby groused.

 

“Guess it doesn't matter to a demon what body it rides or who it kills.”

 

“I'm convinced you're right. It's a demon. There's been a wave of foul weather and storms following in your wake, all the way from Erie.” Bobby heaved a deep sigh. “That's a clear omen. Also, the demon that followed you left a trail of dead bodies.  That's another sign, although it's not always the case.” Bobby's fingers trailed across the page of the book he'd been leafing through. “There's plenty of ancient lore of possession, and the Catholic church still has some priests that perform exorcisms where the victim survives. Most famous was _The Exorcist_.”  

 

John looked doubtful.  “Thought that was a movie.”  

 

“It was based on documented accounts of an actual exorcism—Hollywooded up—but. . .”

 

“We need a priest?” John asked.

 

“No, I don't think so. That's the good news.” Bobby raised his brows and gave John a sneaky little grin. “I got a couple of exorcisms. I think I could get rid of the son-of-a-bitch.” 

 

“You think it'll come after us here?” John glanced toward the stairs, up toward where his boys were sleeping.

 

“Yeah, maybe. We'll be ready, though.”

 

“You sure about that?” John queried.

 

“Not really,” Bobby answered lamely.  

…..........................................................................................

One did not simply waltz out of Hell. Only high-level demons were sent to the surface on missions. The assignments were few and far between and highly prized by Lucifer's most loyal.

 

She was not a powerful demon. She was at best a fourth-rate, maybe even lower-level demon, unknown to the powerful—one of the masses. The fact that she was unknown was the reason she was topside. She was unknown and clever. She stayed in the shadows, exploring the deep recesses—the hidden places in Hell—until she found a way out. 

 

She lived as she pleased on Earth, not by the rules of man and not by the rules of Hell. As long as she kept hidden—remained unknown—she was safe. But she was about to change all that. After a couple of centuries, she was bored with this pointless life. With this child, she was about to grab power in Hell. 

 

Her new meat suit was a good one—a female—tall, long-limbed, lithe and powerful. She felt good in this body. The time for play was over. Even though she was weak by demon standards, she was powerful enough to take on the hunter and his friend. She made no elaborate plans. She would go in head-on, kill them all and take the child.

 

Excitement coursed through her veins as she approached the door to the old house. She already knew that the two men were downstairs and both boys were upstairs. She would gut the two men first and then go after the child.

 

She stood on the porch, ready to kick in the front door, when she suddenly felt him: a dark hand reaching up from the deep pit of Hell. He called her by name. She felt the black nothingness, the deep coldness of despair rise up through her meat suit, twisting through her. The pain consumed her like flames as the hand of her master fused with her soul and ripped her free of the body she was riding, pulling her back down through the earth and into the bowels of Hell.  

 

“The boy is mine,” a dark voice echoed in her brain like a deadly caress. “But you—a demon so clever as you—are mine, too, and I have use for you.” Dark laughter flooded through her, and she didn't know if it was his laughter or her own. “Time to come home, Ruby. I have a plan for you.”

 

She saw her last glimpse of earth for the next eighteen years. She would not be able to hide this time. She was no longer unknown.  

…............................................................................................

A scream, long and low, filled John's head. When his eyes met Bobby's, he knew the other hunter had heard the scream as well. It was unlike anything John had ever heard. It was a rasping, deathlike, evil sound that rose in both volume and tone until his ears ached and his head throbbed as it echoed through his brain. 

 

John followed Bobby as he ran to the front door, jerking it open just in time to see the woman writhing in agony. Black smoke, the same black smoke that John saw escape the waitress at Biggerson's, pulsed from the woman's mouth and nose. It oozed out as if struggling to break free, but was sucked back in. The woman's body jerked and seized with each pulse until she finally collapsed, dead on Bobby's porch.  

 

Both men stood stunned, mouths agape, eyes fixed on the lifeless body left behind by the demon.

 

“What the hell was that?” Bobby questioned. “Spontaneous demon combustion?”

 

“I don't know,” John answered.

 

“You think it's dead or just gone?”

 

“I don't know.” John repeated. “Back at the restaurant, that thing kinda . . . I don't know . . .” He flung his hand out, imitating the way the demon had flown out of the body and across the sky. “. . . smoked out.”

 

“This looked more like it imploded.” Bobby raised a brow at John, giving him a slight shrug. “Looked kinda painful. I'd say something more powerful than that demon grabbed it.”

 

“Why? What do you think it was?”

 

“I don't know, but let's not look a gift horse in the mouth.”

 

This was unholy; demonic without a doubt. The demon was gone, perhaps dead, but John was sure of only one thing:  Whatever had ended this demon's chase of his boys was powerful and couldn't be at all good. This whole thing, up to and including the death of the demon, felt evil.

 

“Come on,” said Bobby, his voice breaking through John's dark thoughts. “We gotta clean this mess up before the cops get wind of a body. Ain't no way to explain this away.”

 

After they burned the body, John lingered on the porch while Bobby went to shower. He swirled a shot of Jack in his glass. He could remember only one time when he'd been this emotionally drained. That was six years ago, when he'd sat on the hood of the Impala holding an infant Sammy, with a four-year-old Dean clinging to his side. His home, his wife, his whole life was blazing out of control, soon to be no more than a pile of ashes. 

 

This time, all his little family had gotten out alive, but he had a strange feeling this gift came with strings attached, and he was not looking forward to finding out what those strings were. He'd rather know what he was dealing with.

 

“Hello, John.” The deep voice came from a shadowy figure standing in the dark drive.

 

John Winchester stood, squared his shoulders, and carefully controlled his face to show no fear as he faced this new threat.

 

“What? No thank-you?” 

 

The oily, smooth voice grated on John's last strained nerve, but he refused to answer, refused to react.

 

“You've been given a gift. The demon is gone. Your son is well.”

 

“And what's the cost? What do you expect in return?”

 

“Why, John,” the man scolded. “It's a gift. There is no payment. “But. . .” There was a small sliver of white teeth, a ghost of a mocking smile. “. . . your son will come to me. When the time is right.” 

 

“You can't have my son,” John growled. “I'll kill you first.”

 

“John,”—strange yellow eyes flashed in the darkness—“you can't kill me.”

 

“Make no mistake. I will figure it out. I will hunt you down, and I _will_ kill you,” John promised.  

 

“You can try,” the demon laughed. 

 

The silence that followed his disappearance echoed through the darkness and deep into John's heart.  John made a vow to the darkness. He would raise his boys to fight, to hate evil, to hunt down supernatural creatures and kill them, every single one. He would teach his boys that there would be no compromise with monsters. A thing was either human or it was not, and anything not human was to be killed. 

….................................................................................

The next morning was Christmas Eve, and Bobby was up a little earlier than he was used to. Since he'd been flying solo for so many years, he'd fallen into his own pattern of sleep and turned into a night owl. He generally stayed up with his books and the occasional movie until three or four in the morning and then stayed in bed until around noon. Last night, instead of a movie, it had been a spontaneous exorcism and a bonfire. He had even more reason than usual to stay in bed late, but that wasn't possible.

 

Unlike Bobby, John had apparently trained himself to sleep through the sound of little feet trampling up and down the stairs at the ungodly hour of six-thirty. How many reasons could a kid find to go back up the stairs anyway? And apparently, if one went up the stairs for whatever reason, the other couldn't possibly wait downstairs.  He had to go up the stairs too, and then they both had to come back down. They sounded like a herd of ponies galloping through the house. 

 

Bobby knew it was time to get up, even if it was o'dark-thirty, when he heard the kitchen cabinets banging. Whatever was going on in there, he was sure it needed supervising. He tossed the covers back with a huge sigh. Given his choice, he'd rather hit the shower before he started the day, but he wasn't sure he had time. It sounded like his kitchen needed protecting, and he could still hear John's loud snores. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. He quickly threw on the jeans and T-shirt he'd taken off last night, reckoning that his shower would have to wait until John decided to get out of bed and tend to his boys. 

 

“Guys, you're not tearing up my kitchen, are you?”

 

“No. I got it, Uncle Bobby.” Dean looked up from the table as Bobby entered. The little one, Sammy, was sitting at the table, bowl of cereal and milk in front of him, which he seemed to be enjoying well enough—if a milky, toothy grin was any indication. A neatly poured glass of orange juice was in front of him, within range, but clearly out of the knock-over danger zone. He had a napkin tucked into his shirt. 

 

“Sammy was hungry and I didn't want to wake you up. Are you mad at me?” Dean clearly knew he'd taken liberties, but there was no damage to the kitchen. The kid knew how to take care of his brother, and Bobby could see that he would do just that and face the consequences, even if it meant the rage of a crotchety old man who might be capable of anything. Of course, Bobby wasn't really old. He was just a few years John's senior, but he felt old. He'd been old all his life, thanks to his father. He'd never been a kid, and he knew the boys thought he was ancient.

 

“Nah.” Bobby mussed the soft brown hair on the top of Sam's head and received a giggle for his show of affection. To look at the child now, you would never know he'd been so sick. He was the picture of scrawny-six-year-old health. “I woke up hungry myself. Thought I might make pancakes.”

 

“Pancakes,” Sam whispered to Dean, his hazel eyes peering up at his brother as if he were sharing a dark secret. He pushed his unfinished cereal away, and Dean reached out quickly, grabbing the bowl before the contents could splash across the table. He gave Sam a warning glance. There was something in that boy that was decidedly older than ten.

 

Dean took the bowl to the sink. “Thanks, Uncle Bobby. I love pancakes.”

 

“Pancakes are my favorite,” Sam said, following his brother's lead.

 

“I'll help you with breakfast,” John spoke from the door. “Want me to make some coffee?” He made his way over to the coffeemaker while Bobby got milk, bacon and eggs from the refrigerator. “I think I might've had one too many of that cheap whiskey last night. I don't usually out-sleep the boys.”

 

“Yeah, well. I got something better for Christmas Eve.”

 

John scrubbed his hand across his face. “I might have to pass tonight. It's wearing a little heavy on me this morning.”

 

“We'll see,” Bobby huffed.

…..........................................................................................

After breakfast, John left on a run into town for supplies and to get a little Christmas for the boys. Bobby settled on the porch with the morning paper and a hot cup of coffee, intending to keep an eye on the boys while they explored the salvage yard, but he soon decided it was too cold outside. Dean assured him he was experienced enough to keep Sam and himself both out of trouble. Bobby gave him a hard look and warned them to stay out of his tools before he made his way back into the warm house and stretched out on the sofa. The plan worked out well, as the boys enjoyed exploring the yard and playing in the rusted out cars.  Bobby drifted off to catch up on the sleep he'd given up in favor of pancakes. He couldn't complain, though. It was the best sleep he'd had in quite a while.

 

After lunch, John settled the boys in the back of Bobby's pickup, and all four of them headed down a narrow road deep into the woods behind the salvage yard. 

 

“Keep your heads down, boys, and don't be hanging off the side!” Bobby yelled back to the brothers as he pushed the truck through a gauntlet of overgrown trees that scraped the top of the cab and flapped along the side. 

 

“Damn, Bobby.” John ducked, even though he was safe in the cab with the windows rolled up. He glanced through the back window, nervously checking on his sons. “I take it you don't drive back here often.”

 

The road was little more than a faint memory of two ruts stretching into the back of Bobby's property.

“No. Ain't been back here in years, but we'll make it.” He gave John a reassuring smile as they bounced along. It didn't seem to work well, because John just laughed nervously in return. “Not much further,” said Bobby, trying again to reassure him.

 

“Good,” John said with a nod as a particularly long limb slapped the window. He jerked his head back to check on the boys again.  

 

They finally reached a point where what little there was of a path seemed to end altogether. Bobby threw the truck into park and jumped out of the cab. John was already at the side of the truck bed, reaching in to pull Sam out, while Dean had climbed up and was jumping down from the side. 

 

Sam was laughing hysterically, clinging to John. The child's laughter echoed through the quiet woods sounding like pure, innocent joy to Bobby's ears.

 

“That was fun!” Sam exclaimed as John lowered him to the ground.  He turned to Dean for confirmation. “Was that great or what?” 

 

Dean shoved him playfully on the shoulder. “Yeah, it was great,” he laughed.

 

“Come on, guys. Now we walk.” Bobby grabbed an ax from the truck, handed it to John, and then pulled out a saw. 

 

John slung the ax across his shoulder, and the two men started walking into the woods with the two boys between them. “Let's go find a tree,” John said.

 

“A Christmas tree? A real live one?”

 

Sam's little voice danced across Bobby's heart. You'd think the boy had never had a real live Christmas tree. Bobby glanced at John. The man's face was pensive as he watched his young son jumping around with glee. 

 

“Can I pick it out? I want a real big one.” Sam's little arms stretched to indicate just how tall he wanted the tree to be. “Come on, Dean.” He grabbed his brother and the two boys ran ahead.

 

“Don't get too far. Dean!” John called out.

 

“I got it, Dad,” Dean called back.

 

Bobby swallowed around the lump that formed in his throat. “That boy's never had a real Christmas tree, huh?”

 

“No. I'm afraid this time of year is kind of . . . difficult.” John scrubbed his free hand across his face. “Seems like the Christmas stuff was really more Mary's thing. I just—”

 

“Well, it was more Karen's thing too. I ain't really paid much mind to Christmas myself in more years than I care to admit to, but I ain't got kids, John,” Bobby admonished. He wondered if John would take offense. It wasn't his place, really.

 

But John's eyes were sincere. “I really appreciate this. That demon almost got my boys. She almost killed Sammy. . .” He let the rest of those thoughts trail off unspoken. “Not only that, but you having me and the boys for Christmas—it's easier. Besides,” he said, holding out his arms, ax choked up in one hand, indicating the woods around them, “you got all these trees for the boys to choose from and a house to put one in.”

 

“You're welcome.” Both men chuckled. “And I have to admit,” Bobby went on, “I'm enjoying the kids. I coulda done without all the demon stuff . . . ” This time Bobby left his words hanging out unspoken. 

 

“Thanks, Bobby.”

 

By the time the men caught up with them, Sam and Dean had picked out a nice fir tree that seemed appropriate enough. It was about a seven-footer, a little flat on one side, but no tree was perfect. Bobby figured they'd put the flat side to the wall, and no one would ever know the difference. Besides, the only grownups likely to see the tree were right here, and neither of them would criticize the boys when they seemed so proud of their choice.

 

That evening, they decorated the tree. John had bought cookies and stuff to make hot chocolate. They popped corn and Bobby brought out a bag of cranberries. He trusted Dean with the needle and thread, and Sam's job was to hand the pieces to Dean so that he could string them together and make a garland. Of course, they both had to try not to eat all the popcorn before they got the tree decorated.

 

Bobby pulled out decorations that he'd packed away after Karen died, and everyone hung balls on the tree. Last of all, he gave the boys strands of tinsel to throw over it all and make the tree sparkle. Bobby broke out the High West Whiskey, and they laughed and tried to remember the words to some Christmas songs. Even Dean didn't feel too old to snuggle up next to his dad, while Sam curled up with Bobby, and they watched the lights on their tree blink on and off. 

 

It was John who broke into his favorite Christmas song, saying he hadn't sung it in years. His deep baritone voice was surprisingly smooth.

 

“ _God rest ye merry gentlemen._

_Let nothing you dismay._

_Remember, Christ, our Savior_

_Was born on Christmas Day_

_To save us all from Satan's power_

_When we were gone astray._

_O tidings of comfort and Joy,_

_Comfort and joy,_

_O tidings of comfort and Joy.”_

 

John had a contemplative look in his eyes, as if he'd never really thought about the words of the song before. Perhaps they'd never seemed so relevant. “Let us hope,” he spoke absently.

 

“Yeah, we can do that,” Bobby answered and raised his glass.

 

“Do you think Santa will know where to find us?” Sam's voice was little more than a whisper in Bobby's ear.

 

“I'm sure Santa will find you,” Bobby answered.

 

“And he'll find Dean, too?”

 

“And Dean, too.”

 

Christmas morning was almost here, and for the first time in too many years, Bobby was looking forward to the day.

…............................................................................................................

_**End** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas to all!  
> Thanks for the Kudos.

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies to the folks from Erie. Not to dis your town, I learned the term Dreary Erie from a co-worker who used the phrase in fond memory of her hometown. It stuck with me for years. John's dislike of the wintery weather and lots of snow is a reflection of my own and serves to set the tone of the story. No doubt there are beautiful sunny winter days in Erie.  
> =^..^=


End file.
